


Penumbra

by RumRollins (GreyStained)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Jack Rollins is a shadow creature as requested by no one, M/M, Will add more as the story progresses - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:06:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyStained/pseuds/RumRollins
Summary: It was in the quiet, where he thrived. The lull in a conversation. The pause when air filled your lungs, right before you exhaled. For even though humans were intriguing at their loudest, it was in the silent moments where their true beauty shown. When they didn’t know they were been watched.But after several eternities, he was tired of just watching.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

It was in the quiet, where he thrived. The lull in a conversation. The pause when air filled your lungs, right before you exhaled. For even though humans were intriguing at their loudest, it was in the silent moments where their true beauty shown. When they didn’t know they were been watched.

That’s why he waited until the thick of night to roam. Some of the warier ones called it the Witching Hour, the time when inexplicable events occurred. As if that was a time to avoid, rather than enjoy. He didn’t need to sidle through the cracks at this time, not when he blended in so well. It was practically an invitation.

A dappled glow shown on the carpeted floor, emanating from the nearby aquarium. This one’s bed was tucked into the corner of the room, with the sleeping form on top swaddled in thick blankets that spilled out onto the floor. An arm was thrown carelessly over the eyes, jaw slack and mouth open. It befuddled and amused him, how many humans insisted on having a light source on as they slept, despite it being ultimately purposeless.

He inched closer. Not enough to hover over the body- humans got upset when he hovered- but close enough where the heat pouring off the bed subtly met the surface of his form. The temptation gnawed at him, followed by a flicker of shame. He always told himself that just _watching_ would be enough, that’s why he’d let himself venture into their rooms, but time and time again, his deeper curiosities surfaced. This one was sound asleep. Surely, making contact wouldn’t be so bad…..

As he contemplated, the thinnest, most delicate of tendrils budded out from his form, cautiously swirling towards the exposed flesh of a wrist. _Just a touch. Just enough to feel the skin._

Sure enough, the heat growing closer with proximity reached a pin point as he delicately caressed the bony jut of the wrist. Smooth and warm and still, yet with so much life thrumming below. He didn’t possess the capacity to smile in this form, but the sentiment was there. So captivated he was, that he didn’t register the other arm moving to reveal the whites of terrified eyes.

“ _MOOOOOOOM_!”

The bloodcurdling shriek resonated through him, and in an instant, the tendril retracted. He adhered himself to the plaster wall, moving swiftly along the surface back towards the window screen from where he’d entered. Just in time to be out of sight when another one burst through the door.

“Jamie?!”  
  


“Mom, there was suh-someone in my room….”

" _What_?”

“It _touched_ me!”

He could hear the rattled sobs of the child from where he clung to the brick outside the window. It’d been a foolish, selfish move. He _knew_ what his touch did to the younger ones, how cold it made them feel.

He slithered down the brick to where the building met the sidewalk. Yet another one of his weak moments that would be blamed on night terrors and sleep paralysis. Despite existing for millennia, he still had no restraint within him. He darted down into a storm drain, waiting a beat before letting his form expand out once more. A fresh wave of rain from the East had brought the murky water’s level up some; it was from this crevice that he could see the city’s many lights glittering across the asphalt, not unlike the light shimmering from the child’s aquarium. Perhaps he understood, now.

He traveled along the sewer’s path, expertly weaving through the many turns and connections to reach another part of the city, away from the townhouses to a street populated by a different type of folk. He didn’t need to look through the opening in the storm drain to know that most of the businesses were closed. One building at the end of the block, just barely visible from where he lingered, still had its lights on, however. _Bronx Alehouse_ read on the sign above the storefront. It was here where he found the most _interesting_ of them, even if some of them were too loud. That was peculiar, too; he’d watched plenty of people drink the same amount in their homes as they would in bars, but they were always more disorderly here. Even with how far away he was, he could still pick up on the raucous commotion inside.

“—way too much, you’re cut off.”

_Ooh_. People were leaving now. He darted to a closer storm drain to watch.

“That’s such bull _shit_ Wilson, c’mon. There’s plentya guys in there way more shitfaced-“  
  


“And they aren’t picking fights. Go home, Rum, give it a rest. You can come back next week.”

Two men, of similar height, one _much_ more inebriated than the other. The sloppy one swore unintelligibly, waving a dismissive hand towards the bar as he began his staggering walk home.

“…how ‘bout I call you a cab, huh?”

“Fuckyou, not my goddamned babysitter,” the sloppy one called. The other man went back inside and was immediately forgotten. He slipped out from the storm drain, moving to the other sidewalk to follow his new subject.

“Place iza shithole anyway,” he heard the man grumble, scuffing his shoes along the pavement. The gravelly tone in his voice suggested an older age, but he’d only ever seen a haircut like that on younger humans. So very interesting. He felt comfortable enough creeping closer, as he knew that in this state, humans noticed less. The man was doused in the scent of alcohol and sweat, his shoulders curled in and gait unsteady, like a newborn foal.

“I know yer behind me, quiddit ‘fore I beat your face in.”

He darted back into the shadow of a mailbox and immediately went still, just as the man turned around. A pause. He would’ve held his breath, if he had lungs.

“……mus’ be seein’ shit,” came another slurred murmur, and the man continued on his way. It gave him just a moment to see his face- sharply angled, almost gaunt, with a tired, rough look to his skin. There was a story behind every face, and he ached to know this one.

They continued their stalking game for the next block. This time, he got closer, close enough to feel the warmth lingering on his skin. The skin he ached to touch-

“Whoeverthefuck you are, back _off_ -“ A sudden spin, and then the man was throwing a careless fist- right into nothing. He was startled, but all too delighted to see the man’s face again. Until he saw the glossy, amber eyes go wide and the skin go pale.

The reaction was to be expected. It wasn’t every day that a human saw a Shadow Being, after all.

The man’s rough fist hung in the air, surrounded by the murky darkness of his incorporeal form. He himself was struck into stillness. He’d never gotten _this_ close to one of them before. Not without them screaming. He watched the man’s face contort and process the sight before him, the swirling, nebulous mass of shadow engulfing his fist. There was horror in his expression, but no screaming, yet. Perhaps, this was a chance?

“ _Hhh. Hhhha. Hhh- Hello-_ ”  
  


“What the fuck _is_ this?”

With the greeting falling on deaf ears, the man took an uncoordinated step back, quickly retrieving his hand from the dark fog. Another step. Then his body was twisting, legs breaking out into a stride, which carried him a few yards. Right up until his foot slipped on the grate by the crosswalk, when he collapsed on the hard ground.

So much for a first good impression.

He expected the man to rush to his feet and continue his escape, but that didn’t happen. His body, still reeking of booze, lay limp where the sidewalk sloped to meet the road. Humans weren’t _that_ fragile, surely. He ventured closer, curiously peering at the body. The man lay face down in a grimy puddle, faint bubbles floating to the surface.

He’d certainly drown like this. Humans needed air, a fact that the dark being knew well. But the man made no attempt to get up.

A thought bloomed within him. He could _help_ this one- but only by _touching_ him.

A dark tendril prodded the body once, then again for good measure. No response. He could move into action. More tendrils joined, gingerly lifting the man up while supporting his joints and head. He turned the body over to see his face again. Covered in filthy water and scraped up from the fall, he was still uniquely beautiful. And so wonderfully _warm_.

“Hey Rum, you out here? Lemme get you a-- _what the fuck_?”

He turned to see the man from earlier, eyes wide and mouth agape. Damn. This complicated things.

“ _Get the fuck off him!_ ” The new man surged forward, but his speed paled in comparison to what the shadowy one was capable of. Distressed and clutching the unconscious body, he compressed and sharpened his form, silently shooting up into the sky, blending into the dark once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assuredly, the man would be grateful when he woke. But until then, he could indulge a little.

After uncovering the knowledge that the whole world was out to get him, there wasn’t much that surprised Brock. He expected the ulterior motives, the backhanded compliments, the eyes watching him, and he built up the necessary defenses to combat all of it. It amounted to a grim life, maybe, but a safer one.

Nothing in his arsenal could prepare him for what happened that night, however. He remembered going through the typical motions that day; going to the warehouse, picking up and putting down boxes for 5 hours, going home to watch cooking show reruns, then going to the bar. The memories dulled after that, as they always did. Emptying a glass and being supplied another, warming a seat in the joint until the noise started to bother him. He couldn’t remember what set him off this time, but it was usually a pair of eyes with too much judgment behind them.

Not much else after that. Wilson’s sharp voice shoving him out the door, the cool mist of the night hitting his flushed skin. No, not just cool, _freezing_ \- like he’d been plunged into ice. The taste of bile creeping up his throat, the scrape of asphalt on his skin. The sight of trees rushing past him.

This was all he could recollect, lying down with the wet scent of wood-rot in his nose. The city air wasn’t acrid here, more earthy. He was still in the city, right? Where else would he be?

Moving made his joints ache and his head complain. His cheek stung, and the skin felt tacky. It took more than a minute to make his arms work for him again, and when he lifted himself to sit, the whole room swam in his vision.

Room. He was in a room.

There were shreds of daylight peeking in from gaps in the ceiling, giving his weary eyes just enough to grasp on to. The stone-paved floor he sat upon was infested with moss and dirt, enough so that it almost looked like carpet. The walls were dark, the wood-grain just barely visible—that explained the rotting wood smell. What once was a bedframe was now a dilapidated heap of wooden beams. A doorway, off to his left.

His legs didn’t want to move, and he didn’t make them. Instead, he planted his hands on the wet floor and scooted his body back into a corner. The bile was returning again, a nauseous mixture of too much beer and a bad gut feeling. He didn’t bring himself here. Someone else did. Now, it was only a matter of time before they came back.

He wasn’t tied up though, which added another layer of confusion. Nothing stuffed in his mouth or tangled around his feet and hands. No masked stranger brandishing a weapon and waiting for him to wake. No one. It was just _him_. He could leave now if he could convince his body to move.

He leaned back against the wall, skin twitching at the cold surface. He was shirtless. He hadn’t been shirtless before, right? That bile was threatening to spill over now, as his mind raced with repulsive ideas of what happened while he was unconscious. No bruises or marks, but he knew from experience that there were ways of leaving damage without it being visible. Arms crossing over his stomach, he braced himself and pushed his feet down to force himself up along the wall. A splinter sliced into his skin, making him suck in a sharp, wincing breath. He could worry about infection later, when he wasn’t here, in a scene from the goddamned Blair Witch Project.

That subtle sound of breath was all the moment needed for hell to break loose. The rich, earthy smell immediately went cold and sour, and Brock felt it coming before he saw it. The plunging chill. His skin broke out in goosebumps, and his breath caught in his throat as a thick, spheroidal mass of ebony smoke manifested itself in the center of the room.

“ _Youuuare…. Awake._ ”

Brock didn’t dare to move.

* * *

A real, living human in his grasp. Warm and breathing and so very complex. After having been spotted by the other man, the caliginous figure had escaped into the night sky with his prize, soaring away towards a place he knew well, where no human would look.

As he glided through the air, with the human safely enshrouded within, he felt a certain elation. The same sort of glee the younger ones expressed when they received a new toy.

It was still dark when he arrived at the small house. The journey, which would’ve taken any human hours to traverse, only took him a meager fraction of the time. The structure was old, forgotten, and nestled in a thick cluster of forest. An old stone water-well sat nearby, untouched for years. In the summer months, he’d seen curious groups of people venture out this far, but the house sat on a cliff and was inaccessible to them. All they could do is stare, while he stared right back.

He enjoyed it here. In the forest, shadows could be found along the undergrowth and in the crevices of every tree. The wildlife was frightened of him at first, but as time elapsed, they grew to ignore him. He found this much better than being feared.

He had placed the human delicately on the floor in one of the two rooms in the house, this one most closely resembling a bedroom. The man was still unconscious, but his chest quietly rose and fell. Another flash of glee struck the shadowy form. He had saved this human from an untimely death. Assuredly, the man would be grateful when he woke. But until then, he could indulge a little.

The shirt the man wore- what did the other call him? Rum? A peculiar name- was thin, soaked through with dried sweat and moisture from the night sky. Dark coils slid under the fabric to ease it off his body, and he examined the garment further. Humans washed these things when they were soiled. He could do the human- Rum, another favor. He could imagine the immense gratitude already.

Saving that task for later, he moved back to the human, tentatively observing. Most people were softer underneath their clothes, but this one was firm, with defined muscles expressed under the skin. A slender projection reached out. Unlike the child, Rum didn’t immediately balk at his touch. He traced the curves of each muscle, enraptured in the feel of it. Smooth and solid, like a warmed stone. More tendrils reached out, towards the brunet’s arms and shoulders, taking it all in. One even ventured to the vee of his hips, where the waistband of his pants rested, but his curiosity was halted. Years of observation had taught him how distraught humans became when they were examined below there without their express permission. When Rum awoke, he would ask.

And speaking of asking. He needed to brush up on his speech. Their encounter would’ve certainly gone differently if he was capable of introducing himself, right? Retracting his dark curls, he slid back a foot. Staying here while the man slept would just mean inevitably giving into temptation. His time could be better spent doing something else.

Fusing into a dark patch by the bedframe, he slithered away to give his human solace, for now.

* * *

“ _Hhhellooo. Iih- It’ssss niiiiice tooo meeeeet…_ ”

“ _Mmm… Mmmmaaay I…_ ”

It had been some time since he last spoke, alright? He understood the languages well, the meanings behind the sounds, but making said sounds was difficult when he didn’t have defined vocal cords. Or lungs. Or a mouth. His voice, if one could call it that, was dry and raspy, like the grind between two sheets of sandpaper. It’d have to do, for now.

He couldn’t be sure how much time had elapsed since he’d last checked in on his person. Dawn was creeping into the forest now, usually an indicator for humans to wake up. He wanted to be there when Rum roused, so he could give proper greetings and quell the man’s worries.

From where he lingered above the forest floor, the dark haze melded into the ground, weaving through the leaves and brambles back to the abandoned house. He slunk in through a hole in the wall, but much to his dismay, his human was already awake—and moving. He needed to improvise.

He expanded his form to about an eighth of the room, not much bigger than the man, as not to be intimidating.

“ _Youuuare…. Awake._ ”

No reply from Rum. Not a terrible thing, because that included no screaming. He still couldn’t smile, but the sentiment was there.

“ _Hhello. It’sss nice to meet you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'but alyssa,' you say, 'shouldn't you be studying for physiology?' i cackle menacingly in response.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was only trying to help.

Brock thought that the only time he’d been more paralyzed with fear was during Jump Week at Fort Benning. The sergeant had told them all that their Silver Wings would be waiting for them at Ground Zero-- that, or a hole in the dirt. The fulcrum on which those two outcomes teetered on was 26 feet of parachute fabric. 

Actually, this was worse. There was no opt-out. There was no parachute. Only the hole in the ground. A heaving mass of inky smoke hovering in front of him, making noises that almost sounded like words. 

His body was stiff, but his eyes were frantic, trying to comprehend the size of this thing. The air stuck in his throat still hadn’t moved yet, and that lack of oxygen was starting to make his hungover head swim. It only made this situation feel more surreal.

A tendril arose from the bulk, and hooked onto it was-- his shirt? The vine slithered through the air towards him, letting the wet heap of fabric hit the ground with a damp ‘slap’ a foot in front of him.

_ I cleeeeeeeeaned thisss fooor you. _

No, those weren’t just noises, but actual words. “What the fuck. What the  _ fuck _ .” His breath suddenly rushed into his lungs, still not moving any limbs while his eyes darted between the shirt on the ground and the hellspawn that decided to do his laundry.

_ Puuuut it back onnnn?  _

The slight upturn at the end made it sound like less of a demand and more of a question, but Brock responded to it as a demand all the same. The thin fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin as he yanked it over his head, not wanting to take his gaze off this thing for a second.

_ Beeeetter now. _

What. Was.  _ Happening _ ? His mouth felt so dry. His body felt so hollow and frail, unable to use any of the adrenaline that was kicking in. How could this not be a dream? It had to be.

_ Issss…. _

“Huh?”

_ Isss yourrr name Rum? _

“N-No. It’s not.” The smoke made another noise that, intangibly so, sounded crestfallen. 

_ Whaaat is yourrr name? _

Did it matter that this thing knew what his name was? He didn’t think so. But if they were talking, then he wasn’t being mutilated or consumed or…. Whatever his fate would end up being.

“My name’s Brock.”

_ Brrrock _ . 

Now it sounded pleased. That was almost enough cause for him to relax slightly, but his body seized up a moment later when the creature moved three feet closer. Too close. 

_ I sssaved youuu. _

“Saved me from what?” His voice cracked at the end. The air felt so much colder near this thing, enough to make him shiver in his wet shirt.

_ Yyyou felll. Fell innnto the waaater. I saaaved you. _

“...thanks?” This didn’t make any sense.

_ You arrrre welcome! _

And if the grating sound of its voice hadn’t been bad already, hearing it bellow loudly throughout the room was something truly horrible. But despite the sights and sounds, it seemed easygoing. Just a very chill behemoth that made his heart want to stop.

“So, um.” He found the strength in him to stand up straighter and take a half-step to the left, where the doorway was. “This…. was good. Thanks for washing my shirt, I think?” Honestly, it smelled worse than before. Like pond scum and sulfur. “And- and thanks for saving me, again. But I can’t stick around for long, y’know? Gotta get back to my place.”

_ Yyy… Yyyou are leaving? _

“Yeah, I have to. I’m a busy guy.” No, he wasn’t, but he guessed that this thing couldn’t read his thoughts. Probably. He still had no idea what it was capable of-- or what it was, in the first place. He took another step, feeling the thing’s eyeless gaze on him. No problems yet. Another step--

_ Nnnnoo! _

The harsh noise rung in his ears, and the swirling mass fled to the doorway, engulfing the opening. Now the entire room felt ice cold.

_ Youuu… can staaay. Please? _

What was he supposed to say to that? Brock’s eyes went wide, and his legs suddenly felt unsteady.

_ Dooon’t leave yet. _

“....okay. Yup.” 

The shadow form returned from the doorway to tower over him. For something so devoid of physical character, this thing certainly was expressive. 

He couldn’t keep calling it a thing. Not when it clearly had sentience and personality.

“What’s your name?”

The amorphous being, which had been constantly fluid and moving before, froze at the question. 

_ I…. do nooot have a nnname. _

Just great. “What should I call you, then?”

_...I dooon’t know.  _ A brief silence. _. Youuu are the firrrst one to asssk me thaaat. The firrrst one to taaalk to meee. _

Brock could believe that wholeheartedly. Maybe there was a weak pang of sympathy in his chest, but not enough to overpower the sense of I-need-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here.

_ Yooou can give me a naaame? _

“I don’t think it works like that.”

_ Whyyy not? _

“That’s… I mean, that’s something you’re born with. I can’t make one up on the spot. I barely know you.”

_ I wasss not born. I have alwaysss been. _

“So, you’re immortal? Like a god?”

The creature was thinking. Brock didn’t know how he knew that.

_ Not liiike a god. _

“What the hell are you, then?”

_ I ammm immutable, all-flowwwing. I go wherrre there is shaaadow, and I survvvey all that moooves and breeeathes. _

Hearing the terrifying mantra made his skin crawl. “...I’ll call you somethin’ simple, alright? How ‘bout Jack?”

_ Jaaaaack.  _ It sounded very satisfied with that. _ I havvve watched many Jacksss in my tiiime. _

“Great, it works then.” 

He was making small-talk with a living ball of shadow. Maybe the physician had been right about his fucked-up head.

_ Jack. Jaaack. Brooooock. _

Now the shadow was talking to itself. He wanted to laugh, or cry, maybe. Or beat himself unconcious again. 

“Why don’t you want me to leave, Jack?”

_ Youuu are the firssst one,  _ Jack repeated. _ The otherrrs run away, aaand they screeeam.  _

Something that Brock would’ve done himself, if he had the chance. “Well, I mean. I can get that. You’re not something people expect to see.”

_ I knoooow. _ How could scratchy whispering sound so forlorn?  _ So I just waaatch. I always watch. It’ssss so cold, though. But yooou, you are so waaarm… _

Something like ice crawled up his wrist, and he glanced down to see a thin tendril of pure black slide along his skin. “ _ Jesus _ !” He yanked his arm away, the momentum carrying his unsteady body toppling back down to the stone floor. He was right back to shoving himself against the wall, chest heaving. 

“Do not, do  _ not  _ fucking touch me,” he warned.

_ I am sssorry-- _

“Is that why my fuckin’ shirt was off? Were you touching me? Holy shit.” He palpated his body from his chest to his legs, trying to find lumps, implanted eggs, anything. “What did you fucking do to me? What the fuck is this?”

_ I…. just waaanted to see…. _

“Wanted to see what you could get away with while I was unconscious? Jesus Christ, this can’t be fucking real, you aren’t real.”

_ Buuut I am... _

“No, you aren’t! I’m just seeing shit right now, or I’m dreaming, or something. You’re just-- just some creation from my fucked-up head.”

_ I am REAL! _

Thick coils descended from the smoke, moving towards Brock to wrap around his ankles, his legs. He shrieked and kicked out against the bonds, but only more joined, twisting around his torso and arms, rendering him immobile as he was lifted into the air to stare directly into the endless smog.

_ Pleeease stop yelling. Caaalm down. _

Brock’s face was pale, sunken in. He’d never felt so cold before. So  _ scared _ . 

_ I aaam going to put you downnn, now. _ Jack did just as it said, gingerly lowering Brock’s feet to the floor and retracting its appendages when it was positive that the man could stand on his own.

That’s when Brock ran.

* * *

It had been going so well. The human had been talking with him, Brock had even given him a name.  _ Jack _ . It fit perfectly. A gesture he’d cherish for centuries to come. But yet again, his eagerness had gotten the best of him. Brock had started panicking, rambling nonsense about him not being real- which was silly, because of course Jack was real. If he wasn’t real, then who saved Brock’s life? Who brought him here? It was senseless talking, and the human was just riling himself up further. Maybe Jack’s reaction didn’t help the situation either, but he was trying. If Brock just calmed down, he could see that.

But it was all spiraling out of control, now. Brock had dashed out of the room on clumsy legs, into the room adjacent which had once been a kitchen. 

_ Wait, Brock--! _

His form flowed into the other room as well, just in time to see Brock overturn the table and shove the bookcase onto the floor. More nonsense, because these were hardly obstacles for Jack. Brock had to know that, right? He followed Brock out of the small house, watching the brunet hastily stumble over stones and roots. He wasn’t moving at a fast pace, and Jack would have no problem catching up when Brock wore himself out. The man wouldn’t even get that far, going in that direction-- a couple more yards, and he’d be at the cliff. A steep drop, with underbrush as the only padding forty feet below. A dead end, surely. Jack pursued him at a leisurely pace, already beginning to form the words for another apology when the brunet approached the cliff, hesitated, then jumped.

His form reacted faster than his words did, shooting out a long tendril to wrap around Brock’s calf just as he went sailing over the edge.

_ Sssstop! _

The man fell only a few feet before the line around his leg went taut and his body’s movement was sharply ceased. A cracking sound rang out in the forest, followed by a harsh wail. Jack was right at the edge in a moment, pulling Brock’s suspended body back up. 

_ Why would you do thaaat? _ He’d known how capable humans were of recklessness, but to throw oneself off a cliff without so much as a thought?  _ Yourrr bodies are fraaagile…. You could havvve hurt yourself. _

“Please, fuck, let go of me,” Brock cried out in response, clutching at his hip. His face was twisted in pain. Jack then registered the cracking sound he had heard.

_ Oh…. Oh no… _ He lowered Brock down to the grass.  _ You arrre hurt. _

“No shit I’m hurt, holy  _ fuck _ . Think my hip’s dislocated.” Jack could see that it was said through gritted teeth.

_ Stayyy still, and I will fiiix it. _

“No! No, please, just- please stop touching me.” The human turned on his side, still tenderly grasping his leg. “M’sorry for running, okay? I won’t do it again, I promise.”

_ I dooon’t think youuu could run riiight now, anyway. _

“Fuck you, Jack.”

The guilt rushed inside him. He’d only been trying to help. This was the second time he had saved Brock. Why was the man so unhappy with him?

_ What cannn I do to help? _

“Just, leave me the fuck alone, please. Don’t touch me with your weird fuckin’ tentacles. I’ll pop it back in myself.”

Jack meekly let his form sink down into the grass and watched Brock groan and twist his body. He could see that the man was shaking and breathing hard, positioning his hip in such a way that he could use his weight to force it back in. Then, after the count of three, the brunet shoved his body down onto the joint. No distinctive ‘pop’ was heard, however. Just another agonized yowl that slowly petered out into quiet sobs. Jack was hard-pressed to find a solution to all this that didn’t involve touching the human with… with his  _ weird fuckin’ tentacles _ , as Brock put it. He needed to intervene, even if it would make Brock upset.

_ Be still. _

It all happened in a swift motion. His form engulfed Brock’s hips to force the joint back into place, while an appendage covered his mouth to smother the scream. See? Quick and easy. Proactively, he lifted Brock’s body and brought it back to the small house, where the human wasn’t in danger of throwing himself off the cliff again.

He brought the human down to rest on the spot he’d been before, and was satisfied with his work.  _ See? I saaaid that I could help-- _

“I told you n-not to fucking touch me!” Tears were trailing down the man’s face now, rolling over angled cheeks.

_ But I fixed yourrr leg… _

“After I told you to l-leave me alone. You didn’t listen. You just- just kept fucking  _ manhandling  _ me. No fuckin’ w-wonder people run away from you.” Jack’s form painfully recoiled at that. He watched the brunet curl in on himself, resting his head on the stone floor. “Look, m’clearly not going anywhere with my leg like this. You got what you wanted. Can I just be by myself right now?”

_ ….yesss, Brock. I am sorry.  _ His figure was already melding into the floor, feeling colder than ever before. Not that the human could see, as his red-rimmed eyes closed tight.

“I guess that counts for something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play "how upset can i make the italian man"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christ alive, he was trying to apply logic to things that inherently couldn’t make sense.

Maybe launching himself off a cliff had been a bit of an *overreaction*. But in that split-second, Brock had rationalized it; when he’d hit the ground, he’d either wake up from this nightmare, or he’d (hopefully) die. Either of those outcomes were much more appealing than spending more time with his captor. Unfortunately, he hadn’t foreseen that third outcome, the one where his new shadow-buddy used his body like some cheap marionette, with no regard for what happened to limbs if they got yanked too hard.

So now, after some more undesired manhandling, he was right back where he’d started. Maybe even a step backward from that. The silent tears rolling down his face dried a few minutes after Jack had left, and now Brock was stiffly laying on the floor, a hand gingerly covering his wounded, throbbing hip. It’d been a long time since he last dislocated something, but he knew that such an injury could have dangerous complications hiding underneath the surface. Things like torn blood vessels and permanent nerve damage. If he didn’t have a chance outrunning Jack before, he certainly didn’t now. He didn’t know if the shadow was still lurking around, if it’d notice if Brock tried moving again. Right now, he sorely wished he was at the bottom of the cliff with a broken neck.

Aside from a swift death, another thing his body yearned for was water. And food. In his mad dash out, he’d recognized the adjacent room as being some sort of kitchen. Who knew how long this structure had been abandoned though, and if any of the items stored away were remotely palatable. In summation, he was hungry, thirsty, hungover, injured, and immobile. Completely at the mercy of a socially-deprived monster who couldn’t stop touching him. There was still a healthy chance that this was a nightmare.

Having been allowed some solace meant having the time to process and parse Jack’s existence. Brock had no idea how Jack could talk, considering how its appearance was essentially just an unbounded mass of smoke. What was even more peculiar was, despite its vaporous form, Jack was very much still palpable. Reflecting back on the moments Jack had touched him, he remembered the intensely cold sensation that would envelop his skin. Something like an incredibly dense fog or mist that he could maybe push his hand through with enough effort. 

Then there was the topic of Jack itself- or maybe himself? Christ alive, he was trying to apply logic to things that inherently couldn’t make sense. Qualifiers aside, Jack was confusing, frightening. Even stranger was that it didn’t seem like Jack was trying to be scary in the first place. If he were a person, he’d probably be some shy, bumbling thing, right? 

_ Careful of first impressions, Brock. You know what can hide underneath the surface. _

With perfect timing, his hip throbbed in agreement.

* * *

  
  
  


Really and truly, Jack hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. He didn’t mean to frighten Brock, or hurt him, or make him cry-- that was the worst part. He knew older humans only cried when their emotions were overwhelming. All Jack had wanted was for Brock to stay a little while longer. If the man would have calmed down and given him a moment to speak, he could’ve explained himself. But instead, Brock had spat scathing words at him. It was all too much.

His form, meager in size now, fled the structure in shame and hurt, weaving through overgrown grass and smoothly gliding down the cliff. There were many sights to see in this forest, both manmade and natural. He cruised through endless trees and shrubs until finally halting at a gulch once populated by a stream. In its place was a city of ferns, vivid broad-fanned leaves and new sprouts curling from stems. Jack settled by a bare patch of dirt.

Perhaps he was moving too fast and expecting too much of the human. Being able to hold a conversation didn’t change how he looked. It didn’t change how cold he was. Maybe…. Maybe it’d be for the best if he took Brock back, rather than keep him here. 

His gaze traveled from the ferns to a spot of movement on the dirt; a lone ant, hauling a section of a leaf on its back, trekking back towards its hill and entirely ignorant of Jack’s presence.

Wait. Of _course_. That’s what he was missing. 

One moment, the amorphous cloud hovering an inch above the dirt, and the next, his form was tightening into a spindle-shape and darting away, away from the gulch and forest and towards an entirely different setting.

* * *

  
  
  


It’d been a few hours now, and his shadowy captor still hadn’t returned. In the window and the holes in the wall, Brock could see the sky flush into a gentle pink, signaling dusk was near. In the time he had to himself, he had examined his hip carefully. The joint had been forced back into its socket and wasn’t protruding anymore, but there was a noticeable swell and heat to the site. When he touched it, it felt tender, and rather than risk any further injury by using it, he’d slowly dragged himself over to the other room, the kitchen area. There were the table and the bookcase he’d shoved over behind him in his escape attempt, along with two semi-sturdy looking chairs, a waterlogged circle-rug that looked and smelled like it was hosting a thriving civilization of microbial life, and a kitchenette. Old cabinets, with some missing their doors, a rusted wood-burning stove and a gaping hole in the countertop where he guessed the sink basin had been. Brock’s apartment wasn’t anything close to luxurious, but it looked like one of those high-end lofts that had flooded the market compared to this.

Tired of sitting on the bare-ass ground, Brock lifted himself up onto one of the two chairs, which was marginally more comfortable, if not a little damp. As time had elapsed, the air had grown progressively cooler, and that was something to be mildly concerned about. Donned in his ‘clean’ shirt and worn jeans and stuck in a dilapidated house, he’d have no resistance to the cold. It wouldn’t drop down to frigid levels, but it’d only make his stay here more uncomfortable.

More time elapsed, and the forest was steadily descending into darkness, now. Being a man of the city where there was almost guaranteed a light around every corner, it was unsettling sitting in total darkness. He could hear the night wildlife start to rustle around, branches snapping, bats squeaking, raccoons rustling. Brock hoped he wouldn’t have any more visitors.

Maybe Jack had left him alone for good? Brock couldn’t decide if that was relieving or terrifying. It meant that he’d eventually have to venture out again, with no sense of direction and completely vulnerable to whatever nature threw at him. A flash of inspiration struck him and his hand darted down to palm his pockets-- but he only had his wallet. His phone was nowhere to be seen. The glimmer of hope had been snuffed out as soon as it sprouted. With his shit luck, it probably wouldn’t have had a signal out here, anyway. But at least he could’ve killed some time playing Brick-Breaker or something.

A harsh rustle came from behind, maybe a few yards out. Body going rigid, he whipped his head around, barely making out the visage of something quadrupedal, huge, with a lumbering gait. _A bear_.

He was going to die tonight. Surely, the bear would venture closer and catch a whiff. He’d be torn apart by claws and teeth, and his body would rot into the floor just like everything else in this goddamn house. Brock’s already tense body went completely still, his breath caught in his lungs as he watched the beast’s snout curiously lift up to sniff the air. Whatever scent it caught, however, wasn’t a desirable one, because it looked like the bear stiffened up too, before hastily continuing on its way.

_ Beeeeautiful, isn’t it? _

Brock shrieked and spun around, nearly losing balance in the chair. It was all dark in the room, but there was a space in front of him that was even darker, like a massive void. Jack had returned.

_ Sssorry. I didn’t meeean to startle you. _

Brock didn’t know how to respond to that. He buried his hands in his face and made a sort of unhinged noise. “Jesus Christ. It’s you again.”

_ Whooo else would it be? _

He gave a tired, disturbed chuckle. “I dunno. I dunno what’s happening. I don’t know what’s _real_ anymore.”

_ I am reeeal. I can assure youuu of that.  _

It might’ve been another delusion, but Brock could’ve sworn that the black swarm sounded… happy? Or at least pleased with himself.

_ Hhhow is yourrr leg? _

Brock was surprised that Jack bothered to ask that. “It’s still fucked. Hurts. I need to get it looked at.” He looked back up at the smog, sensing some unease from him.

_ I’mmm… sorry, Brooock… I did not mean to hurt you. _

Jack’s words had been distorted and scratchy before, but when he spoke right then, it sounded clearer, more articulate. Like he’d practiced.

_ I brought some thingsss for youuu... They might maaake you feel better. _

Brock’s heart thudded as a thick column slid from Jack’s form, and again, he risked falling over in his chair with how much he leaned back. But the tendril flowed right past him to grip the upended table and set it back on its legs.

_ Youuu said I could not touch you, Brooock. I will not touch you anymore. _

That line sounded rehearsed, too. His face contorted, but his body relaxed a smidgeon. 

_I knowww that you need to eeeat, and that it isss cold here._ As Jack spoke, Brock watched more vines sprout from his form and set unidentifiable objects down on the table. _So I found what I cooould without being seennn._

The last thing Jack set down was larger. Brock heard a quiet ‘click’, and then the entire room was illuminated in cold, electric light. He squinted his eyes and recoiled to let his sight readjust. 

It was one of those battery-powered camping lanterns. Behind it was an assortment of random goods. Things like a neatly-folded grey blanket and a pillow with a floral satin pillowcase. There were cans of crushed tomatoes and peaches, plastic bags of circus peanuts and boxes of crackers. A package of english muffins, a set of rubber dishwashing gloves, a Food Network magazine, a bottle of Robitussin, and four Slim Jims. It looked like someone had gone grocery shopping blindfolded. But some of the stuff didn’t look exactly new, either.

“Where’d you get all this?”

_ I looked arounnnd, in places where there were no humans. _

Brock took that to mean that Jack raided empty houses. He picked up the bottle of Robitussin and examined it.

_That isss for your leg,_ Jack said proudly.

Brock needed a moment to process what the hell that was supposed to mean. “...this is cold medicine. It will _not_ help my leg.”

Jack shrank a little at that, but recovered, picking up the magazine and offering it to him. Upon further examination, Brock saw numerous creases and stains on the cover. Jack probably swiped this right out of a kitchen. 

_ Huuumans like to look at these. _

“Yeah, I mean-- probably when they’re actually cooking something. I don’t know what you want me to do with this. It’s trash.” Brock tossed the magazine back on the table. Jack flinched again. 

“You’re tellin’ me you left me alone to freeze for half a day while you were out stealing garbage from people?” He let the disbelief come through in his voice. 

_You….. You saaaid you wanted to be alonnne…_ Jack’s form, absorbing every ounce of light radiating out from the lantern, swirled in discomfort.

“Yeah, not for ten fuckin’ hours in a _forest_. There’s _bears_ and shit out here, I could’ve been eaten.”

  
  
_ They would haaave left you alone, too…. They respect my spaaace and my thingsss. _

“What, I’m one of your _things_ , now?” Brock’s voice was rising in volume, and Jack was only growing smaller and smaller.

_ No….. you are a human who I saaaved. I brought youuu these things to make you happy. _

“ _Canned peaches aren’t going to make me fuckin’ happy, Jack_!” If he could stand now, he would. “You wanna know what would make me happy? Going back to the city, going to a goddamn hospital. Not being _here_. I don’t even know where the fuck I am, right now.”

Jack had a diameter of maybe three feet, now. _….you didn’t seemmm happy, when I first saw youuu._

Brock’s brow furrowed. “What?”   
  


_ You looked… angry. And confusssed. And alone. Humans don’t usually like walking alone. _

“Right, ‘cuz you’re a fucking expert, stalking people all day like a freak.”

_ I dooon’t stalk. I only watch beautiful thingsss.  _

“Oh, fuck off with that.”

_ I waaatched you because you were beautiful. You were talking to yourseeelf and you were upset. You looked so lonely. _

Now it felt like Jack was just repeating the same shit. Brock swore under his breath and shook his head. “Cut that shit out, you don’t fucking know me. None of this shit gives you a pass on snatching me up.”

Silence from Jack, for a long moment.

_ ….you are right. I do not know youuu. But I want to knooow you. And I knooow what lonely feels like. It feels so cold. I  _ haaate  _ the cold. _

Now it was Brock’s turn to say nothing, lips creasing into a frown as he crossed his arms over his chest.

_ Do yooou hate the cold? _

He wasn’t about to let this apparition go probing around in his thoughts. “....god, fuck all of this. Gimme the goddamn blanket.”

Jack did as requested, gingerly depositing the folded blanket in Brock’s lap and taking care not to touch him as he did so. Brock snatched the blanket up and pulled it around him, trying not to think about how it smelled like someone’s house. He could feel Jack still waiting for an answer.

“Stop-- Just stop _looking_ at me like that!”

_ I thiiink you hate the cold just as much as I do, Brock. _

“Fuck you. You wanna know about me? I don’t wanna know _anything_ about you. You look like a goddamn nightmare, and if my leg fucking worked, I’d jump off that goddamn cliff again.” 

_ Youuu’d rather hurt yourself again than be arooound me? _

“ _Yes_. Without question.”

Jack sank to the floor, not much more than a puddle of ink now. 

_ ….what if I was human? Would youuu want to be around me then? _

Jack’s train of thought made no sense to him. “What? I don’t fucking know. Probably not.”

_ …..okay. _

While Brock had felt righteous in his anger before, Jack’s despondent answer struck him. He shifted in his seat and pulled the blanket tighter to his body.

_ I will leave you alooone some more. So you don’t hurt yourself. The wildlife will leave you alone, too. I promissse. _

Brock stared down at the dark puddle of Jack, watching him seep slowly down into a crack in the wood floor.

_I hooope the blanket keeps you warm_. Those sorrow-filled words were Jack’s parting ones, and then he was gone again.

The blanket was useless. Brock felt colder than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more sad more sad moRE SAD


End file.
